Bad Boy

Chapter 1 – I Liked That Door

 

“I’m coming,” Georgie yelled, then mumbled, “Ten.” He checked the table in his little apartment, making sure the plates, food, candles, and flowers were in their proper place.

Opening the door with a big smile, Georgie marveled at how beautiful his new girlfriend looked in person. She had on a red dress and her long black hair was tied back. Her dark skin had a soft sheen that made him want to touch her. He thought maybe she would smell like jasmine, but she didn’t. She smelled nice, like lilacs perhaps. Or maybe that fragrance came from the flowers behind him.

“You look lovely.” She did, but Georgie was a little concerned by her less-than cheery expression. “Fourteen.” He tried to say the number as low as possible, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“What the hell is this?” Jasmin screamed, holding up a phone with a bright image on the screen.

Anger. That was the look. Her eyes glared at him and her teeth were clenched. Georgie was not a fan of anger.

Jasmin shoved the phone in Georgie’s face. “Well, what is this?”

Georgie guessed that she must be referring to the image on the phone. “It is a picture of a penis. Twenty-one.” Now he remembered; he had sent it to her. “It’s a dick pic! Thirteen.”

“It is a black man’s penis!” She shook her head and lowered the phone. “You are not a black man.”

Georgie was surprised that she thought he needed to be reminded of this. “I found the image on the World Wide Web. Did you know there are thousands of pictures of penises on the World Wide Web? Ninety-six.”

She scoffed. “What is wrong with you?”

Georgie was pretty sure he had told her already in their online chat, but he answered, “I am very literal and have trouble with abstract concepts. Forty-nine.” This was his rehearsed answer that he always gave when he got the ‘What is wrong with you?’ question — which happened a lot.

She sighed. “First of all, sending me a ‘dick pic’ is extremely inappropriate, especially because I hardly know you. Second, you are supposed to send a picture of YOUR dick, you moron.” She tucked her phone into her tiny leather purse. “Did you think I would prefer to see a black dick because I’m black?”

“No, it was just the biggest one I could find. Like a flower bundle or a box of candies. I was told ‘bigger is better,’ for both gifts and penises. One-seventeen.”

“Don’t contact me again.” She turned and marched toward the elevator.

How odd. “So, you’re not staying for dinner? Twenty-nine.” He looked down the hall, but she didn’t respond. Perhaps he could appease her if he sent a picture of his own penis now.

As Jasmin stepped into the elevator, she glanced back and raised a middle finger toward Georgie.

Perhaps not. Georgie made a mental note to only send pictures of his own penis and only to women whom he had dated at least two times.

He closed the door and headed to the kitchen.

Another failed attempt at romance with someone he’d met online. He smiled. At least he would not have to share his dinner. It was a giant mound of spaghetti with a side of Cheerios, his favorite. “Yum. Four.”

His cellphone rang and he scampered over to it. “Hello. Six.”

“What?” a deep voice on the line asked.

Georgie spoke louder. “I said Hello. Eleven.”

“What’s with the numbers?”

“Oh, sorry. Nine.” He often forgot that other people could hear him say the numbers. “It is the total of all the characters in the sentence I spoke, not including spaces. I am very good at counting. Some have told me that I am a high-functioning–”

“I don’t give a shit,” the voice cut in.

“One-twenty-nine.” It bothered Georgie that he couldn’t finish before being interrupted.

“Stop that!”

“I can’t. Seven.”

There was a heavy sigh on the line. “Great, he’s a freak,” the voice mumbled.

Georgie was very familiar with the word freak. It was not a friendly word.

“You’re George McDillon, correct?”

“I prefer Georgie. My nana called me Georgie. And–”

“Listen,” the angry male voice said.

“Forty-eight.”

“You were adopted. I had you tracked down because…” the voice hesitated. “I’m your father.”

An uncomfortable scene from a Star Wars movie popped into Georgie’s head. He didn’t like that scene. “You do not sound like my father. Twenty-six,” he said, feeling very confused. “He sounds much older and talks slow and uses soft words with me. Fifty-two.”

“No, dammit, I am your real father. Your birth father.”

“Oh, right, I get it. That makes a lot more sense. Thirty-eight.” Georgie scooped up a spoonful of Cheerios. “Do you like spaghetti with a side of Cheerios? If so, you should come over. Sixty-one.”

“What?”

“I also have Animal Crackers, which I like to eat in alphabetical order. Fifty-nine.”

“I am not calling so we can eat together,” his father growled.

He perked up. “Oh, do I get two Christmases now? I hear that people with multiple families get extra Christmases. Eighty-two.”

“Shut up, dammit!”

The man’s scream hurt Georgie’s ears. “You are a grumpy father. Twenty.”

“I am trying to save your life. I do business with some very… hostile people. The private detective I hired to find you back-stabbed me. He sold these hostile people your information, so I need you to leave your house–”

“It’s an apartment actually.” Georgie didn’t mean to rudely interrupt, but he hated it when people said incorrect things. “It has a doorman, an elevator, and everything. It is very nice. My adoptive parents are not poor, but I am actually able to pay for the place myself with a job that–”

“Whatever!” The man huffed. “Leave now. I want you to meet me–”

“One-fifty-six,” Georgie muttered.

With a startling bang, the door to his apartment burst open. Splintered wood flew off around the doorknob. Two men in ski masks stormed in.

“Hey, that was my favorite door!” Georgie cried.

He dropped the phone as the men grabbed him.

“Twenty-six.”

The men forced a black bag over his head.

“Pardon me, but I can’t see now. Twenty-five.”

“Shut up,” one of the men barked.

A heavy blow smacked Georgie in the head.

“Ouch. Five,” he whispered. Hands restrained, he could feel himself being dragged out of the apartment.

Georgie knew he risked getting hit again, but he had to say, “The door wasn’t even locked.” His poor door. He had really liked that door. “Twenty-four.”